


honey it's in the stars

by lightningalwaysreturns



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Plug, Dirty Talk, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 04:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15356193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningalwaysreturns/pseuds/lightningalwaysreturns
Summary: T’Challa was never one to brush aside important matters, particularly if they concerned the state of his nation, but at the same time he was simply human—there was no doubt about that. And, in being human, he could only stomach so many more hours of the same issues being hashed out between the department heads at this damn meeting.





	honey it's in the stars

**Author's Note:**

> pls forgive me this was written before black panther came out lmao

T’Challa was never one to brush aside important matters, particularly if they concerned the state of his nation, but at the same time he was simply human—there was no doubt about that. And, in being human, he could only stomach so many more hours of the same issues being hashed out between the department heads at this damn meeting.

He didn’t remember this much discord characterizing his father’s meetings. The thought irritated T’Challa the more he contemplated it.

Were they arguing over him because they thought they could? Was he missingsomething? Or were matters actually more complex than they had been in his father’s time, warranting the arguments?

What was he even talking about? His father’s time had been—what? A _year_ ago?

...Had it really been so long?

The meeting adjourned only just before he lost the last of his will to live.

T’Challa marched out of the conference room and down the hallway when Aneka stopped him from bypassing the elevators. He turned to face her, pulled back by her gentle but insistent grip on his arm. “Yes?” he said.

Aneka’s dark eyes hid none of her intelligence, and she wore a small, shy smile as she eyed the elevator. “Don’t you have a late lunch date, Your Majesty?” 

A near-sentient shiver scattered over T’Challa’s skin. His throat went dry in an instant. “I do. I do, Aneka, thank you for reminding me.” He blinked back at her, quite blankly, a few times before gathering himself to press the call button.

It chirped flat and low, lit up pale yellow.

Aneka studied T’Challa’s overwarm face—eyes as sharp as hers never missed a beat—but didn’t say anything else. He cleared his throat and stepped into the car.

They headed to his private rooms, where they parted ways, and Aneka disappeared somewhere never too far away.

T’Challa shed his jacket and folded it over a table by the door, where he left his shoes, as well. The smell of a good meal seasoned the air. He followed it to the kitchen where Bucky moved around, so adorably in his element that he didn’t even look up from preparing their plates on the counter.

The weather had been up and down all morning; only patchy sunshine passing through clouds stretched too thin made the space seem alive, but it was all Bucky needed. None of the overhead lights were turned on.

If nothing else, T’Challa had to admit that Bucky preferring to cook in the dark lifted some of the weight from his irate mood. Between the nonsense from the meeting and being caught half-cracked by Aneka, T’Challa hadn’t been sure _what_ to make of his day anymore.

He shuffled to a soft stop on the opposite side of the bar.

Bucky finished up the last of the plating—nothing T’Challa readily recognized, but it looked promising enough—and glanced up to meet T’Challa’s eyes briefly. He grinned, winked as he did it, pulled himself upright to wipe off his hands.

“Perfect timing, kitten. Glad you’re home.”

T’Challa found himself fighting a grin of his own despite the ugly cloud hanging over him. “Is that so?” he said.

“Absolutely.” Bucky tidied up a bit then took the plates to the table with T’Challa in tow. “Water?”

“Vodka,” T’Challa said. His head ached deep within, and, suddenly, his chest felt tighter.

Bucky shrugged and poured him a few fingers from the bar counter. “Is it bad or are you okay?” he asked around his first forkful of food, back at the table.

T’Challa ran his fingertip over the rim of the glass as he ate. He didn't drink any of it yet, but he hadn’t ruled out knocking the whole thing back at once, either.

“A bit all over the place, I think,” he said. His eyes stayed on the glass where his finger dipped across the edge. Heat prickled at his cheeks and across the back of his neck.

Sometimes, the cost of playing his cards close to his chest outweighed the reward of not exhausting himself to do so. They didn’t have to talk about it—T'Challa would prefer if they didn't—but particularly T’Challa didn’t feel like being anything other than honest right now, even if it didn't exactly answer any questions.

He glanced up to catch Bucky’s gaze. “The food is good, thank you.”

“I’m happy you like it. I was late getting back from therapy and thought I’d started too late to be ready for you by the time you got back.”

The darkness at the back of T’Challa’s mind deepened, a wary shadow. “You would have been were it not for my meeting running late due to a _record_ number of petty indiscretions…” He frowned down at his food as he continued to eat, surprised that he could still taste it.

Bucky didn’t respond for a long while. When he did, it was quiet, in between mouthfuls: “Do you mind if I take that drink off your hands, sweetheart?”

T’Challa looked up at him, let the nickname pass over his mind, across the bones of his ribs as he breathed it in. It was soft, unassuming. A pressureless plea. 

He nodded then pushed the drink across to Bucky.

Bucky closed his metal-black hand around the glass and set it to the side of the table, near the edge. He didn’t touch it again the rest of the meal.

***

After they were done and cleaned up, Bucky wiped down the table and then stood in front of T’Challa, arms crossed, and nodded at the surface of the table. “Sit down for me, baby doll?” he said.

T’Challa’s nerves shimmered under his skin. The warmth that spread from his stomach from feeling full, feeling satiated, had mellowed him out somewhat as he ate. He felt altogether different than when he had first walked in the front door.

His heart pounded loud against fragile ribs full of hope. His hands trembled at his side.

T’Challa perched at the edge of the table and lifted himself up to sit on it, facing Bucky. He shifted uncomfortably, more aware than he had been all day of the pressure at his backside. Sparks of dizzying sensation darted up his spine as he adjusted.

Bucky raised his eyebrows. Observing. Lips parted in want. He pressed in close between T’Challa’s legs, thighs spreading slowly open on either side of his hips until they were chest to chest.

T’Challa inhaled sharp at the sudden presence of Bucky’s hands settling on his body—halfway down his thighs and rubbing trembling circles into his skin. 

He wasn’t the only one more scatterbrained than usual.

After a moment, Bucky stepped back and set his hands on either side of T’Challa. They looked at each other; eloquent brown eyes, excited grey.

With such care that T’Challa had to close his eyes briefly, Bucky asked, “Do you still have it in?”

T’Challa bit tenderly at his lip, nodded, felt his insides throb and clench. He hissed out a breath.

The ring of color in Bucky’s eyes thinned around the black. His voice pitched low, half-whispered. “ _Good_ kitten. You want to keep going?”

T’Challa’s fingers curled around the edge of the table tight enough to sting. “Please,” he said. “I—think I—I _need_ to. I'm sorry.”

His entire face must’ve been hot to the touch, but Bucky cupped his cheek like the most comfortable thing, smoothed a warm thumb over T’Challa’s cheekbone, kissed the corner of his beautiful mouth.

“Hush, sweetheart, don't apologize. We’re on the exact same page,” Bucky said. He breathed out one long, unsteady exhale then settled forehead to forehead with T’Challa, hand around the back of his neck.

That hand massaged—lighting all of T’Challa senses on fire in the most _satisfying_ way—until it reposed into a hold just this side of too tight. Possessive. _Caring_ and _undoing_. _Grounding_. 

T’Challa began to drift. 

His eyelids fluttered shut under the touch of Bucky’s hand at the back of his neck. A formless, soundless fog crept in at the very corners of his mind; relief.

Gently, Bucky used his grip to ease T’Challa onto his back on the table, quietly praising his acquiescence all the while. “There you are, baby doll. You had a long morning, huh? But you’re here now and so pretty—god, so pretty, those eyes alone, I swear they haunt me, _lovely_ —”

A fractured sound escaped T'Challa's throat, his surrender otherwise silent. His nails scraped against the wood of the table still held tight in his grasp. 

“Breathe for me, baby. That's right, that's perfect. I missed you so much while you were gone.” Bucky’s hands were everywhere, were _everything_. He wrapped them around T'Challa's hips and pulled—roughly—until T'Challa's ass rested at the edge of the table. 

He whimpered, a little bit, at being manhandled by Bucky. His fingers shifted where they gripped the table. 

Bucky’s deep, strained voice whispered hushed phrases of love laced with a tremble that T'Challa wanted to ask about— _This is what you need, too. Isn't it? I'm here, too_ —if he could only get his lungs to work. The way Bucky peeled him wordlessly, thoughtfully, out of his pants and rucked his shirt far up his chest to expose the long expanse of him—naked and presented; hovering in golden heat—robbed T'Challa of his words. 

He closed his eyes and turned his face away as if he could hide from Bucky’s perceptive eyes, memorizing details of T'Challa's body like he hadn't committed a map to memory by now. 

Bucky traced his fingertips across the insides of T'Challa's plush thighs, so warm and so smooth it molded to the metal of his hand. He pushed them apart, ducking to drop his lips to heated flesh. 

T'Challa dissolved.

Like a drop of electricity into a body of water, the press of Bucky’s mouth to the tender skin of T'Challa's ass where it swallowed around the plug sent a cleansing shimmer up T'Challa's spine. 

His fingers slackened on the table; his knees dropped into Bucky’s steadying grip. The weight in his chest opened up, and he sighed in contentment, feeling the squeeze of his body around the plug more than he had all day. 

He whined, short and soft. A needy little noise that left him feeling high. His ass quivered around the plug, melting under Bucky’s lips.

Bucky draped T’Challa’s leg over his shoulder and held on tight to T’Challa’s hand, his breath warm and wet between T’Challa’s legs as he mumbled sweet words into breathless skin. “God, you look so good like this,” Bucky said, maneuvering so both of T’Challa’s legs fell to his shoulders. He traced the pinched skin surrounding the plug, glistening from the lube they had used to ease it slowly inside T’Challa this morning.

Restless from long nights spent stifling silent tears, T’Challa had whispered out his tremulous request, and hadn’t stopped shaking since.

The early, dark blue morning had been full of soft sighs and softer words, hands on sweat-chilled skin, Bucky lying T’Challa back on the bed—like he had him now on the table—and getting him open, loose and stuffed with plug after plug until he couldn’t take the stretch anymore.

Then Bucky had kissed him slow, lips mumbling low against T’Challa’s hip bones and ribs and collar. And T’Challa was off to work later, with as much a secret as a promise to return.

He managed to _forget_ , somehow—but T’Challa had been looking forward to seeing Bucky. Even more so now that they were here.

“Beautiful, kitten,” Bucky said. “My kitten. My love.” He mouthed at the plump cheeks of T’Challa’s ass as his fingers traced the rim of the plug. Gingerly, he took it between his fingers and twisted it inside.

T’Challa’s hand tightened around Bucky’s; his back rose in a slight arch.

Bucky glanced up the landscape of T’Challa’s torso—from his cock, eager, attentive, lying hard against his stomach—to his needy, dark eyes, asking for so much and giving twice as much back. 

“I don’t know what to do with you,” Bucky said. He pumped the plug in T’Challa’s ass once, smoothly, then turned his eyes back down to watch. Shining skin stretched around the base of the plug as Bucky worked it in, and out, and lit T’Challa’s whole world on fire. “Talk to me a little bit, sweetheart. How’s this feel?”

T’Challa tucked his lip under cautious teeth. His legs tensed around Bucky, wanting to drag him closer, _bring him inside_. His answer was a moan he never meant to release.

The plug pushed back into him, a silvery bright feeling in his blood. His walls clung to the shape, pled for it to fuck in and out of him; he was ready.

“That’s okay,” Bucky said, voice unsteady, almost too hushed to hear. His lips brushed against the sensitive skin between T’Challa’s legs as he plunged the plug in and drew it out not quite to the widest part of the flare. “That’s okay,” he said again. His teeth dragged over hot flesh. “Give it to me now. Are you close?”

“I’m okay,” T’Challa tried to say. He didn’t how much made the escape from his knotted throat. He loosened the grip he had on Bucky’s metal hand.

He wasn’t worried about getting to come. He just wanted to feel like this for a while, watch Bucky take whatever he needed from T’Challa while he concentrated on giving T’Challa everything _he_ needed.

They were a perilous, precarious two.

“I said give it to me, kitten.” Bucky still had a firm hold of T’Challa’s hand and the plug in his ass.

Breathing slow as he could, T’Challa let his body go lax and pushed against the plug—breaching his insides wide, stretching him _so slick_ —until the broadest part of it inched past his rim. He gasped at the feeling of it sliding loose into Bucky’s waiting hand, leaving him empty for the first time in _hours_.

“Please,” he whispered into the soundless room around them.

Bucky answered by pressing two fingers to T’Challa’s asshole, then paused. “You told me you were okay, so don’t come, T’Challa,” he said. Fingertips slipped eager across T’Challa’s skin, sinking in, sparking hot.

A million unreal words flooded T’Challa’s brain as Bucky’s fingers touched inside of him. He gasped. “ _Fuck_.” His cock twitched and rose the longer that gentle fingers rubbed at him; a stretch that was smaller than the plug, slicker, no less salacious.

Gods, how was he still _breathing_ —?

“So sweet,” Bucky continued, almost to himself, and withdrew to slide in another finger beside the other two.

T’Challa heard reverence in Bucky's voice—drowning out the cry that broke free of him at the added thickness. The plug had been bigger, but it hadn’t been _Bucky_ , and precum gathered, high and glossy at the tip of T’Challa’s stiff cock as Bucky worked into him.

His ass gulped down Bucky’s big, knowing fingers in baseless want, driving T’Challa hotter and wilder every passing moment; so much at once, and at a time when he really needed it, too—T’Challa felt overwhelmed.

With a final squeeze to T’Challa’s anxious fingers, Bucky finally slid his hand away and produced the cool, thick gel that hit T’Challa’s hungry ass next. 

Bucky’s fingers felt around inside T’Challa’s tight, warm ass and insides, the long, slick passage that gripped his skin with such a fevered embrace.

T’Challa was the brightest fire, a neutron star, heat in triplicate a thousand times over. 

“Shh, shh, look at you,” Bucky said. (It didn’t register right away that Bucky was shushing T’Challa because T’Challa had begun to purr, _plaintively_.) He was so close to T’Challa’s cock and balls and ass and his breath fanned over all of T’Challa, drenching him. “ _Christ_ , look at you, my baby doll, my _princess_ , don’t come yet, not yet—”

Nerves cheered all down to T’Challa’s toes. The arch in his back deepened, and a long line of precum leaked onto his belly. It glistened. T’Challa continued to purr.

As soon as he felt solid, tapered weight rest at the entrance of his ass, T’Challa’s excitement redoubled. It was another plug, with a blunt rounded tip that he _wanted_ to open up for, let it take up all the space inside him that didn’t feel right and let it shut him up.

His cock twitched almost painfully, thighs tense on Bucky’s shoulders. He couldn't remember wanting anything as bad as he wanted this right now. 

The stretch split him _splendidly_. Bucky was careful, as always, to work the plug in a way that T'Challa's body adjusted without issue to the burgeoning flare. It only made T'Challa want to take it in further, even though he knew Bucky wouldn't let him if he tried. 

He was just so _desperate_ to feel it, so _tired_ of everything else jamming up his brain and filling his blood with poison and depression—

T'Challa let out a sharp moan, bit his lip and held his breath to concentrate on the sensation. 

Bucky's voice rose from the sudden silence, murmured hot between T'Challa's quivering legs: “God, you're pretty here—and everywhere, so _fucking_ perfect, love you so much, can't be anything but _real_ —”

Finally, and suddenly, Bucky fed the rest of the fat, lubed plug into T'Challa's ass. It felt like being stuffed full of silk-soft electricity, dreamy static. 

T'Challa keened high at the top of his throat and went slack against the table, chest heaving as he worked to breathe again. 

“—really do need you to talk to me, baby doll,” Bucky was saying, hands steady on T'Challa's hips. “‘Green,’ ‘good,’ anything, just need to hear you.” He kissed the inside of a knee. “Feelin’ better?” he asked. 

T'Challa managed a nod then—in an even greater feat—lifted his hands from the table to reach for Bucky. “Come here.”

“As you wish.” Bucky slipped a half smile on as tempting as anything before rising from between T'Challa's legs to tug him upright by his shaky hands. “I'm so proud of you, sweetheart,” he said when he had T'Challa wrapped up in his arms, hands smoothing up and down his back. “You did so well for me. Thank you so much.”

T'Challa’s face flamed even hotter than it always was at the praise and thanks—and the nearly-fist-sized plug that sat squeezed inside him so tight, it was uncomfortable to sit upright anymore. 

“Thank you, too, James.” T'Challa lifted his eyes to Bucky’s. The depth of the shadows around them seemed much less pronounced than usual. He leaned forward to press his lips to each eyelid—“And I’m very proud of you, as well,” he added, though for very different reasons than Bucky—before taking Bucky’s face in his hands. “You look very well rested.”

“And you look fucked. We can't have that. Not when you have to get back to work soon.”

With that, Bucky tugged T'Challa's pants back up his long, sinuous legs and carefully put him on his feet to smooth out the rest of his wrinkled clothes.

T'Challa mostly stood pliant in Bucky’s hands, focusing on the feeling of the plug in his ass stretching him so wide that he ached with it. 

Fucking gods, how was he supposed to get through the rest of his day like this, knowing that Bucky would be back home, waiting with a wicked smile? T'Challa swallowed a tremor.

He was still so hard under his clothes—neglected, denied… and Bucky’s body felt so good against him: steady; for once, certain. 

Bucky had said he _loved_ T'Challa. Whispered it so tenderly warm like the afternoon taking shape around them.

A kiss to the tip of his nose. Bucky’s gentle, smiling face, streaked with laugh lines. 

“Is it too much?” he asked with guileless eyes. 

As though T'Challa wasn't practically squirming inside from having an anal plug stretch his ass obscenely wide. He glared at Bucky. 

“Not that it is your problem, but do you really expect me to be able to go back to work like this?” Without indicating what _this_ was (it was everything, to be honest), T'Challa lowered his eyes. 

Bucky lifted a hand to his chin, reconnected their stares. “You thought I was done with you?”

Butterflies assaulted T'Challa's entire world. There was pressure on his shoulder—pressing him down, down, until he dipped to his knees in front of Bucky, eyes still firmly on each other. 

The pad of Bucky’s thumb smoothed over T'Challa's lips. The skin was sleek, inviting. T'Challa blinked slowly. 

“Kitten.” Bucky’s voice pitched low as it engulfed T'Challa's mind. “You get this pretty mouth around my dick, you can touch yourself for me, so I can see you come before you leave, huh.”

T'Challa's hands got busy before he put rational thought to it. He hated turning down chances to suck cock, though. He loved to suckle at it, take big, deep swallows of it down his throat, or jack it with his hand while licking at the tip— _fuck_ , Bucky filled T'Challa’s body _so much_ —

“Goddamn, you are beautiful,” Bucky said in a voice that sounded like he was professing something momentous. His cock was freed from crisp new sweatpants, throbbing in T'Challa's one hand while the other wrapped around his own weeping length. 

T'Challa stroked himself—once, then stopped to keep the electricity from buzzing him out of his skin. He wouldn't need much longer. 

“Baby,” he whispered, a bit brokenly, “let me… wanna taste…”

Bucky laughed back, deep-throated and sweet. He guided the head of his dick up against T'Challa's mouth, pressed between those kiss-bitten lips into melted, honeyed heat. 

Bursts of salty precum hit T'Challa's tongue, and he purred pridefully, licking at it, taking Bucky’s cock deeper into his mouth. His tongue massaged stinging hot skin, hard and thick and pushing in further. 

“Like that?” Bucky was breathless. His eyes went dark and flat while T'Challa's glittered. “Like havin’ my dick in your mouth? You're so good at this. It's you— _you're_ good. You love it, don't you? Want me to come here? Right here in this gorgeous mouth I love so much, yeah?”

There was always something about the way Bucky talked sometimes—like he could take T'Challa’s glowing world and dim the lights when needed—that came out the _worst_ when they got like this. 

T'Challa loved it. His purrs were blissed out, ragged at times, as Bucky fucked his big cock down to the back of T'Challa's throat. 

He tried to remember to breathe, but—his cock was leaking steadily now, slicking the way for his hand as he fucked himself, too—and it was a lot, suddenly, _too much_ , T'Challa muffling moans against the back of his throat, sealed around soft, wet skin.

Orgasm crept quick over him, a full-body shower of weightless warmth. He moaned the whole way through it with Bucky’s cock stuffed so far down his throat that the vibrations traveled between them. 

Bucky let out one last harsh breath—said, “ _Fuck_ ”—and pumped T'Challa's mouth full of pale, thick come. 

He admired the red around T'Challa's eyes and the slack in his jaw as he ate up everything Bucky gave him. Hungry kitten always starved for attention. Bucky wanted to give T'Challa as much attention as he'd allow. He finished off with a last few spurts spilling out to lace T'Challa's lips, a creamy marble white. 

T'Challa glanced up at Bucky, his hand a mess in his lap and his mouth still wrapped around his fat cock. 

Bucky shuddered and pulled T'Challa off his dick. “You're too good to me, you know? Lookin’ at me like that…” His hands wrapped around T'Challa's elbows, lifted him to his feet, helped him steady himself and get cleaned up, straightened out again. 

*** 

They were silent while they reset themselves to decent standards. If T'Challa leaned on Bucky a bit more than usual—or if Bucky paid closer attention to T'Challa than he had before—it only lasted until Bucky produced the glass of Vodka from dinner earlier that night. 

“Still want this?” he asked.

T’Challa eyed it warily. His shoulders were set, and he seemed composed and considering all over again. “I suppose there's no need, after all.”

There he was, the King of Wakanda.

“I'll be off,” he said.

Bucky smiled, watching him go. “Keep doing your good work.”

**Author's Note:**

> Honey, it's in the stars  
> And you're my everything from here to Mars


End file.
